Monarch Butterfly
by kateriya
Summary: A short Schuldich narrative.


Title: Monarch Butterfly  
  
Author: mei-chan  
  
Spoilers: Schwarz and their abilities.  
  
Keywords: Schuldich pov, a little angst.  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters mentioned below. Wish I did, though, but they belong to Tsuchiya Kyoko, Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiß. No point suing, I'm a poor student writing for leisure.  
  
*..* means emphasis.  
  
  
  
Fog.  
  
I hate fog.  
  
For some reason, the presence of fog makes the voices louder. You'd think that when they trained me the first thing they would teach was how to block the voices. Perhaps they left that lesson out just to leave me with a weakness they can harness should anything go wrong. Typically Estet.  
  
I duck into the nearest open door, a futile attempt to escape the voices and the fog. An array of colour catches my eye. I turn; framed butterflies hung on one side of the shop wall. Unknowingly, I start walking towards the display.  
  
Bold, bright colours. These creatures attract attention with their colourful exterior, bright hues of orange, red, green, blue. Sometimes such attention is fatal – like those lying preserved in the display.  
  
People see these bright butterflies, children and adult alike expressing delight over these beautiful creatures that flitter just outside their windows, on and around their gardens.  
  
I wonder how many actually realise how fragile they are. One jerk can rip the pretty wings off. One small tug, and the butterfly's source of pride and form of survival destroyed. The superficiality of appearance. No one notices the fragility when everyone is fascinated with an elegant, extravagant exterior.  
  
No one sees through the flame hair, green eyes and self-triumphant smirk.  
  
The butterfly goes from flower to flower, collecting the sweet pollen each flower offers. Everyone knows that. Sometimes however, sweet honey can drown you, get you addicted then suck you in; you lose yourself slowly, gradually sinking deeper, unable to pull out, a vain struggle to disentangle yourself from the clinging substance (1). They only see the process of picking. Definitely not the consequences. Consequences that only the one in question suffers.  
  
I've been to a butterfly farm once. Once, when I had a bit of time free, on one of the 'errands' that required Schwarz to leave Japan. They don't know of it. Hell, I don't think even *they* would have known of that visit. There were hundreds of species flying around, but one caught my eye and attention.  
  
The Monarch.  
  
Bold orange wings lined with black. One of the larger butterflies, the creature would have made a good meal for a small predator. Yet they fly untouched, no predator wanting to risk hunting it. The Monarch is poisonous; no self-preserving creature would eat it (2).  
  
It was a cool morning, when I found myself at the farm. The Monarchs were basking, gaining what heat they could from the warm morning sun. Leisure and indolence. Secure in the knowledge that no predator will set their sight on these eye-catching, brightly-coloured insects.  
  
Beautiful, but with fangs.  
  
Fangs that unfortunately mean nothing to many humans, their only nemesis. Fangs useless against nature and human destruction.  
  
Attraction comes with a price.  
  
The ability to fly freely, unencumbered by worries of survival other than your next meal. You'd think an assassin didn't have it in him to envy an insect. Who said stereotypes were the one-all and be-all? Left alone by your predators, free to flitter from plant to plant, anywhere you choose.  
  
But this particular butterfly is alone. No other companion flies with it, no immense numbers when he travels (3). Repulsed because of his poison. Schuld (4). Only a dark, vast emptiness. Or the noisy, incessant ringing of overwhelming voices. One and the same.  
  
I am no Brad Crawford; it's never been my nature to plan for grand ambitions. Day to day, that's how I lived. How I'll continue living, a nasty habit formed from childhood. If it could be considered a childhood. Left in my situation anyone would mature fast. One would think I'd hate God the way Farfellow does, given what was handed to me, but I don't. Because I don't believe he exists.  
  
Because, as that cold voice emotionlessly informed me, my future lay in my own making. And because I chose to believe him and all he said.  
  
My choice. He was wrong in one aspect though – my future is not of my own making, but of his. When I chose, I chose to follow, to place my life into the hands of one who can maintain his own mind, his ambitions.  
  
Flame hair and green eyes stare back at me in soft reflection form the display case. On impulse, I pick up one displaying the Monarch. I look out: the fog has lifted.  
  
But the voices remain.  
  
  
  
~owari~  
  
  
  
Notes:  
  
Schu once commented that thoughts were like honey. I'm drawing a link with 'honey' and 'nectar'.  
  
The Monarch is poisonous because the caterpillar grows feeds on the milkweed plant (a plant with poisonous latex); the toxins ingested as a caterpillar remains with the butterfly for life.  
  
Monarchs migrate to warmer places like Mexico and Florida in winter, from colder states in the U.S. and parts of Canada. When they stop to rest along the way, they group together in large clusters.  
  
Means "guilt" in German.  
  
Information gathered from http://butterflywebsite.com 


End file.
